The clay mug fell, shattering,
the water inside staining
the floor with its murky
paint-infused hues.
Brushes lay, wet and askew.
Blankly, the artist stares,
the sound of his breathing
emphasizing this moment.
There is beauty in small things.

I want to paint you
And captivate all your details in my mind
I want to draw your face over and over again
Until I memorize all of your lines
To the slight curve of your nose
Until the perfect shape of your eyes
Looking up so thoughtfully, wanting to fly
I want to take you to the skies
Just to see the pure blue color reflect on your skin
I want to take you to the most distant beach
So I can captivate how the color of the sea
Can shape your lips into little smile
And become to exact same color of your eyes
As they look at me
The only one that could draw you
Even without looking
Because I already memorized all of your lines
In my mind

There's a girl somewhere in Mexico city
painting the world around  her
with the pigment of her heart.
You can find her by following the warm palette
she leaves behind in everyone she meets.

She's planning to start a revolution
one color at a time,
cause these gray days we have don't suit her.

She's sketching hope for the future
on the canvas of desolation
cause life is too short to sit and stare at the void.

Sometimes, when the darkness gets a little too heavy around here,
I think about her and everything gets a little clearer.

How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know

Arles never once treated you with the same beauty as you saw in it
Concern for your wellbeing never came from the people you passed
Not even after they learned that you had taken your last breath
Your memory contained nothing but whispered rumors
They painted the picture of the madman who kept no company
Disregarding the compassion that flowed out of you
Only some knew the truth and what events molded
The trauma that shaped the man who frequented empty fields
Auvers-sur-Oise knew you as a separate man entirely
They stole pieces of you that you did not even have of yourself
Made you their crown jewel, nothing more than a story to keep the town alive
No part of your legacy remained untouched, just as no relationship you’d held stayed pure
Your own doctor claimed your art and in turn your reputation for himself
But how were you to have stopped them
Especially when you were not around to plead for anything different

How does it feel to be disliked by your whole village
But loved by a world you never got to know

I was handed a palette full of vibrant colours and asked to paint my home.

I painted for hours, and then I took a step back only to realize that I painted your arms.

Pretty pink petals
Scatter a path
Through the trees.

Branches reach up,
Grasping at the sky,
Trying to pull themselves up.

The leaves are beginning to turn,
A single leaf dances,
Fighting its fate to fall.

A painter’s brush leaves a trail
Across the dimming sky.
Each colour blending into the next.

A bird chirps,
A river trickles.
Wind rustles,

The chill is biting
But not unwelcome.
It breathes life.

In a calm like this it’s easy to remember  
To breathe in
And out.

And nothing else matters.

He takes the brush
full of endless wonders
never runs out of
stories to ignite aflame.

Yet every day he seems
to fall into deep thought
in some other world
where beauty excists
inside a brittle crystal.

The brush, shattering it
to design carefully another
wondrous form of art.

Painter, draws the life
while the composer plays
music for the silky soul.

Poet, writes the lines
of eternal exsistence
while the dancer gives
heart for the movement
Of life.